When asked to submit something for the recent Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse, I went searching through my archives for something appropriate. I guess for me there can be nothing more powerful than Defective Child so that fit the bill even though I had submitted the piece to the blog carnival before.
Reading over that piece is always emotional for me and it occurs to me there are so many layers in the poem maybe the power of her secret isn't as obvious to others as it is to me. There was no part in my system with more power over how I functioned in the world than this defective child.
Because this part had such power, my healing was directly dependant on liberating her from the chains applied by my programming. As long as she "believed" the trick they played on her, there was going to be no real freedom from the cult's influence over my life. The deep dark hole of depression that beckoned me led directly to her.
While it might be obvious this part was well hidden, what wasn't obvious was that she could only be accessed when I was "alone." The very nature of her function was to keep me stuck in the belief I didn't deserve to be alive. What better way to assure her silence than to make her inaccessible to anyone outside and her voice only heard inside when we were so low we wouldn't question her beliefs.
I suspect this is the part of me that "should" have been the vehicle the cult intended to use for their purposes. Instead of getting pissed off and vengeful, lashing out at the world, at the prospect of never being acceptable, she retreated into a prison of her own making.
That prison seems to be what prevented her programming from being accessed in a way that would have allowed the cult to "build" their foundation as they planned. However, even though they were unable to create the slave they wanted, they did indeed put the programming in place for the self destruct necessary to keep their secret.
The defective child was indeed convinced she had no right to be alive. The pain she felt from that "realization" was significant enough it ruled the entire system. She felt no love, no hope. The void those feelings created was such a vacuum that all other feelings could be sucked away into oblivion leaving only the belief being dead was better than a life like this.
It was no wonder I had no self esteem. This deeply hidden child could not be consoled. She was so convinced she deserved to feel as she did, she wouldn't risk exposing herself for fear of rejection. She could not, would not tolerate one more humiliation. She had reached the max of what she could endure at the time she was formed.
She never spoke. It was only leaks of feelings throughout the system in freaky out of control alone times that told of her existence. It was when I was plucked from my support system, the walls keeping her feelings contained began to give from the strain making me aware of her power.
Recognizing those feelings as the booby trap the cult planted to keep me silenced, I knew I must not succumb to the urge to die instead of deal with those feelings. However, I still had no idea a small child was the source of all that pain but I did know I was loosing the controls my system had established to keep me safe.
There was no road map to her location......no clues, no hunches......nothing but an awareness of darkness.......and the fear of being alone. In all truth I didn't know I was seeking a child. What I knew was I needed to fix that "black hole" that ruled me.
Only by being willing to address what I feared most was I able to locate this child. When I did, everything became clear. For the first time since my journey of healing began I understood what made me who I am.
It was the power of the Defective Child's secret that kept me caught in the trap where I abused myself believing I didn't have the right to live. Even though her message was buried deeply in my subconscious, it affected every aspect of my life. She believed she was guilty, even though she was not, and that is what kept me trapped.Understanding that she was an innocent caught in something beyond her control set me free.
I suspect from my experience with this child that the key to freedom from cult programming of other survivors probably lies within the secret held by the part each fears the most. Those "evil" ones that are abhorred, despised and even locked up are probably the ones most damaged, most misunderstood, if the truth is ever told.
Not that I am advocating just turning those parts loose to reek their havoc, but accepting them and understanding maybe there really are good reasons they turned out as they did might just make a huge difference in healing. Being willing to hear each story with compassion and understanding might just lead to the liberation of another "defective child."
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Many months ago I found "that box" that help all my journals and artwork from the days of my intense therapy. While I needed to locate it if I am ever to begin writing that book, opening the box up has been like joining Pandora. Those old wounds are not far enough away to escape the memories wanting to spill over into the daylight. The contents so emotional some are too personal to be shared here.
While I understand all of those things might be helpful to those trying to heal from such nightmares, part of my concern has always been some freak might discover it and misuse the material. I began thinking about building a private blog as a way to make the work available without making myself anymore vulnerable than I already have.
I have finally gotten around to building that private blog. I have marked it as containing "adult content" as well. I want my readers to know some times information there will probably be shocking and even triggering to some.
I would think that some of my artwork might even be considered to be pornographic material in the wrong hands since there is nothing symbolic about my artwork. I'm afraid it is quite graphic......... but it is what happened to me.
That straight forward approach is what worked for me in my therapy process. It is how the memories came to me.......... as the utensil in my hand formed them on paper, whether in the form of poetry or paintings. Little if any emotion came with those discoveries. Those things only arrived in the safety of a therapy setting when the part who had endured such abuse would surface to claim her story.
I have made my first post to that blog. It is not, however, anything from the old box. It is, however, a vulnerabilty I didn't realize I had. Anyone wishing an invite to read the private blog please email for an invite.
While I understand all of those things might be helpful to those trying to heal from such nightmares, part of my concern has always been some freak might discover it and misuse the material. I began thinking about building a private blog as a way to make the work available without making myself anymore vulnerable than I already have.
I have finally gotten around to building that private blog. I have marked it as containing "adult content" as well. I want my readers to know some times information there will probably be shocking and even triggering to some.
I would think that some of my artwork might even be considered to be pornographic material in the wrong hands since there is nothing symbolic about my artwork. I'm afraid it is quite graphic......... but it is what happened to me.
That straight forward approach is what worked for me in my therapy process. It is how the memories came to me.......... as the utensil in my hand formed them on paper, whether in the form of poetry or paintings. Little if any emotion came with those discoveries. Those things only arrived in the safety of a therapy setting when the part who had endured such abuse would surface to claim her story.
I have made my first post to that blog. It is not, however, anything from the old box. It is, however, a vulnerabilty I didn't realize I had. Anyone wishing an invite to read the private blog please email for an invite.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Innocence of Black
The body of a child
Walks to the sacrificial altar.
Robed in the innocence of black
Every movement precisely as choreographed.
Arms outstretched - - Eyes downcast
The monotoned voice of trance
Speaks each deliberate word.
The devil of a child
Gives herself freely in her chains.
This ritual a tribute -
To the honor of her defilement.
The gift bestowed upon her
The loss of her immortal soul.
The soul of a child
Hides beyond their reach.
Robed in the innocence of black
And still bound by their chains
Hidden even from the child.........
The soul of the child waits.
This poem was written 4-28-90 during my therapy process.
Walks to the sacrificial altar.
Robed in the innocence of black
Every movement precisely as choreographed.
Arms outstretched - - Eyes downcast
The monotoned voice of trance
Speaks each deliberate word.
The devil of a child
Gives herself freely in her chains.
This ritual a tribute -
To the honor of her defilement.
The gift bestowed upon her
The loss of her immortal soul.
The soul of a child
Hides beyond their reach.
Robed in the innocence of black
And still bound by their chains
Hidden even from the child.........
The soul of the child waits.
This poem was written 4-28-90 during my therapy process.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Prince's Lady ************ Beware of Triggers
The Prince of Darkness lives
In the strangest places.
Tucked away in heart
And behind the nicest faces!
He can grow to such proportions
As you'd never believe to see
I know that it can happen
Because it happened to me!
There was this rich, elegant lady
She looked quite prim and proper
But when she was behind closed doors
Nothing could quite stop her!
She liked little kids and animals
Involved in twisted, perverted sex.
Watching, performing, or orchestrating
Anything, she was willing to test.
Sometimes she gave parties
And offered us, children, as dessert.
Five and six year old prostitutes
In service to the worst of the worst!
Then there were black robed rituals
To pay tribute to the "One" below.
Candles, chants, heavy air and BLOOD,
And no way to know how it would go.....
Shadows grew to a frightening height
And the evil permeated the room.
Innocents shied at the sight of her face.
Her presence implied pending doom.
As she read the blasphemous book
The altar glowed in the candlelight.
She played with the snake hung round her neck
As she praised the Prince of the Night.
She mixed a heavy potion of wine,
White powder, and sometimes blood, to drink.
She served it in a blackened chalice.
The brew made it hard to even think!
Consciences died in that strange stupor.
The strong preyed on the young and the weak.
Rape, sodomize, kill, what more?
How depraved and demented can they think?
She called for blood, they gladly gave.
The diabolical frenzy grew.......
The One she sought so diligently
Was there, in her eyes, I knew!
Their hearts overpowered with blackness
Ripped innocents to bloody shreds.
They fed on flesh and gloried in blood.
Satan's power rang in their heads.
The death and sex went hand in hand
Until finally all were spent.
The children ravaged, three of them dead.
That's just how one night it went.
The devil saw many such nights
Each more insane than the one before.
I wish I could say I'd seen just one
But I know it was many more.
She devoted herself to evil.
Possessed of its power, she grew.
Betrayal of innocence the key
To the kingdom of darkness, she knew.
She was seeking immortality
To protect her from her fear of death.
Paving the way to hell in blood
Was to give her this request.
No one must escape her demon lust
For her power to be complete.
Corrupt them all, including the small
The terms of her contract to meet.
She must overcome the light of grace.
Extinguish it in all she sees.
Before it can spark a ray of hope
For her victims to see their way free.
So her pact with Satan remained
Her goal just a ways out of her reach.
For she never could quite get them all
The Lord of Darkness' doctrine to preach.
So she kept on trying more evil
To suck people into her sin.
And there were plenty, like her,
Just waiting for her reign to end!
Then they could move into her place
And form their own pact with the devil.
So they could have power, money, sex,
All their dreams, for the sake of evil!
And still it continues to happen
Cause in the daylight they all look the same.
But when darkness comes, their evil grows
And they play Lucifer's deadly game!
written Marcy 24, 1987
This poem is the result of the memories of several of my inner children. They were probably 5 or 6 but really had no knowledge of their age. It is a combined memory because one child couldn't make any sense of the spectrum of human behavior they were exposed to and still sruvive. Each child absorbed as much of the circumstance as her psyche could hold, then another child was formed to take over, and so on and so. Some have feelings about the circumstances, while others are historians and carry just the details. In most cases the feeling child and the historian would be present at the same time to accommodate the bizarre situations. Putting everything together in poems like this, helped to make sense of all those fractured pieces.
In the strangest places.
Tucked away in heart
And behind the nicest faces!
He can grow to such proportions
As you'd never believe to see
I know that it can happen
Because it happened to me!
There was this rich, elegant lady
She looked quite prim and proper
But when she was behind closed doors
Nothing could quite stop her!
She liked little kids and animals
Involved in twisted, perverted sex.
Watching, performing, or orchestrating
Anything, she was willing to test.
Sometimes she gave parties
And offered us, children, as dessert.
Five and six year old prostitutes
In service to the worst of the worst!
Then there were black robed rituals
To pay tribute to the "One" below.
Candles, chants, heavy air and BLOOD,
And no way to know how it would go.....
Shadows grew to a frightening height
And the evil permeated the room.
Innocents shied at the sight of her face.
Her presence implied pending doom.
As she read the blasphemous book
The altar glowed in the candlelight.
She played with the snake hung round her neck
As she praised the Prince of the Night.
She mixed a heavy potion of wine,
White powder, and sometimes blood, to drink.
She served it in a blackened chalice.
The brew made it hard to even think!
Consciences died in that strange stupor.
The strong preyed on the young and the weak.
Rape, sodomize, kill, what more?
How depraved and demented can they think?
She called for blood, they gladly gave.
The diabolical frenzy grew.......
The One she sought so diligently
Was there, in her eyes, I knew!
Their hearts overpowered with blackness
Ripped innocents to bloody shreds.
They fed on flesh and gloried in blood.
Satan's power rang in their heads.
The death and sex went hand in hand
Until finally all were spent.
The children ravaged, three of them dead.
That's just how one night it went.
The devil saw many such nights
Each more insane than the one before.
I wish I could say I'd seen just one
But I know it was many more.
She devoted herself to evil.
Possessed of its power, she grew.
Betrayal of innocence the key
To the kingdom of darkness, she knew.
She was seeking immortality
To protect her from her fear of death.
Paving the way to hell in blood
Was to give her this request.
No one must escape her demon lust
For her power to be complete.
Corrupt them all, including the small
The terms of her contract to meet.
She must overcome the light of grace.
Extinguish it in all she sees.
Before it can spark a ray of hope
For her victims to see their way free.
So her pact with Satan remained
Her goal just a ways out of her reach.
For she never could quite get them all
The Lord of Darkness' doctrine to preach.
So she kept on trying more evil
To suck people into her sin.
And there were plenty, like her,
Just waiting for her reign to end!
Then they could move into her place
And form their own pact with the devil.
So they could have power, money, sex,
All their dreams, for the sake of evil!
And still it continues to happen
Cause in the daylight they all look the same.
But when darkness comes, their evil grows
And they play Lucifer's deadly game!
written Marcy 24, 1987
This poem is the result of the memories of several of my inner children. They were probably 5 or 6 but really had no knowledge of their age. It is a combined memory because one child couldn't make any sense of the spectrum of human behavior they were exposed to and still sruvive. Each child absorbed as much of the circumstance as her psyche could hold, then another child was formed to take over, and so on and so. Some have feelings about the circumstances, while others are historians and carry just the details. In most cases the feeling child and the historian would be present at the same time to accommodate the bizarre situations. Putting everything together in poems like this, helped to make sense of all those fractured pieces.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Grandma's Kittens ******** Possible Triggers
I was reading a poem on JIP's blog and it reminded me of an inner child, actually it reminded me of more than one inner child. This poem is about one of those childre. I imagine the other will follow.
Little child under basement stairs
Seeking grandma's feral kittens
Knowing it's safer hiding there
Though being scratched and fiercely bitten.
Upstairs is where the real horror lurks
Drunken people groping, grabbing
Laughing mean, demanding perps
Little kids their very favorite hunting.
Wild kittens don't play favorites
They scratch and bite any seekers
They aren't fooled by lies and tricks
Instincts stronger than make believers.
So underneath the stairs the child stays
Seeking acceptance from wild kittens
Looking for proof she somehow fits
A world believed but always hidden.
If she can woe the feral kittens
Tame the savage beast inside
Maybe she will have a chance
To know that mama's lied
Little child under basement stairs
Seeking grandma's feral kittens
Knowing it's safer hiding there
Though being scratched and fiercely bitten.
Upstairs is where the real horror lurks
Drunken people groping, grabbing
Laughing mean, demanding perps
Little kids their very favorite hunting.
Wild kittens don't play favorites
They scratch and bite any seekers
They aren't fooled by lies and tricks
Instincts stronger than make believers.
So underneath the stairs the child stays
Seeking acceptance from wild kittens
Looking for proof she somehow fits
A world believed but always hidden.
If she can woe the feral kittens
Tame the savage beast inside
Maybe she will have a chance
To know that mama's lied
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Distant Watcher
Beware: Possible Triggers
****************************************
Hiding in my bedroom closet,
Trembling to my toes.
Trying to keep my crying down
Muffled amid the hanging clothes.
She would hear the tell tale signs
And descend upon me there.
Ranting, raving, crazylike
With that cold and icy stare.
She'd beat my head against a wall
Then kick me where I fell.
Pound and kick and kick and pound.
I didn't hide too well!
I pleaded for protection
Not for me, I'd never dare,
But for the other children dying.
How could she, for them, not care?
She screamed that I was lying.
Making stories up, she said!
I'd do anything for attention!
It was all up in my head!
I didn't see those children die!
I didn't see the torture!
I didn't smell the burning flesh
Or hear their cries of horror!
How can it be? She saw it too!
I know she saw it too!
"Shut up!" she said, "You will shut up!
What must I do with you?"
"Kill you, if I must, I will!
I'll beat your head into the wall
Until you find the sense
To admit you've lied about it all!"
I prayed for the peace of blackness
My savior from times before.
If I can't be rescued from this life
At least let me not feel anymore!
And please don't let her kill me.
It's more than I could bear!
To be killed by my own mother
That is my greatest fear!
It's the worst of all rejections
And how defective must I be
If she wants to snuff me out
In her needing to be free?
Gradually, they fade away
The craziness....the pain....the fear.
I see myself down on the floor
From up behind my shoulder.
I've become a distant watcher
Disgusted with the child there!
How do you respect a self so
Helpless and filled with fear?
Finally, the blackness comes!
It brings with it relief!
No more conscious memories of her spite
That no one will believe!
When I awake, she's left me.
The room is black and still.
There is no blood, no torn clothes,
No signs, only what I feel.
The distant watcher's still along
Guiding what I think and do
Telling me that I've been bad.
It can't all be because of you.
She couldn't protect a murderer
So children must not have died!
It doesn't matter what you've done
Because it mattered that I lied!
The distant watcher's helping me
To identify who the culprits are.
My feelings, they have sold me out!
It can't be that she doesn't care!
She didn't let those children die.
I know that I have lied!
The distant watcher's protecting me
But how come I feel dead inside?
written January 1987
****************************************
Hiding in my bedroom closet,
Trembling to my toes.
Trying to keep my crying down
Muffled amid the hanging clothes.
She would hear the tell tale signs
And descend upon me there.
Ranting, raving, crazylike
With that cold and icy stare.
She'd beat my head against a wall
Then kick me where I fell.
Pound and kick and kick and pound.
I didn't hide too well!
I pleaded for protection
Not for me, I'd never dare,
But for the other children dying.
How could she, for them, not care?
She screamed that I was lying.
Making stories up, she said!
I'd do anything for attention!
It was all up in my head!
I didn't see those children die!
I didn't see the torture!
I didn't smell the burning flesh
Or hear their cries of horror!
How can it be? She saw it too!
I know she saw it too!
"Shut up!" she said, "You will shut up!
What must I do with you?"
"Kill you, if I must, I will!
I'll beat your head into the wall
Until you find the sense
To admit you've lied about it all!"
I prayed for the peace of blackness
My savior from times before.
If I can't be rescued from this life
At least let me not feel anymore!
And please don't let her kill me.
It's more than I could bear!
To be killed by my own mother
That is my greatest fear!
It's the worst of all rejections
And how defective must I be
If she wants to snuff me out
In her needing to be free?
Gradually, they fade away
The craziness....the pain....the fear.
I see myself down on the floor
From up behind my shoulder.
I've become a distant watcher
Disgusted with the child there!
How do you respect a self so
Helpless and filled with fear?
Finally, the blackness comes!
It brings with it relief!
No more conscious memories of her spite
That no one will believe!
When I awake, she's left me.
The room is black and still.
There is no blood, no torn clothes,
No signs, only what I feel.
The distant watcher's still along
Guiding what I think and do
Telling me that I've been bad.
It can't all be because of you.
She couldn't protect a murderer
So children must not have died!
It doesn't matter what you've done
Because it mattered that I lied!
The distant watcher's helping me
To identify who the culprits are.
My feelings, they have sold me out!
It can't be that she doesn't care!
She didn't let those children die.
I know that I have lied!
The distant watcher's protecting me
But how come I feel dead inside?
written January 1987
Sunday, February 15, 2009
More Old Poetry
Take them from the corner
One at a time
Take them by the hand
And lead them through the blackened maze
Find them a place
To heal their wounds
A place in the light.
The babies will need
Someone to hold them
Rock them
Protect them
But then - - they will all need protection
The babies, most of all.
The screamer will need a safe place to scream
And ice cream to soothe her throat.
The head banger, a softly padded room
And a very special teddy bear.
The crying child, a fairy castle
Complete with magic looking glass.
The angry ones need a workshop
Stocked full of tools of destruction.
Yes! They all need special things
To heal ver "special" wounds..............
written 4-15-90
One at a time
Take them by the hand
And lead them through the blackened maze
Find them a place
To heal their wounds
A place in the light.
The babies will need
Someone to hold them
Rock them
Protect them
But then - - they will all need protection
The babies, most of all.
The screamer will need a safe place to scream
And ice cream to soothe her throat.
The head banger, a softly padded room
And a very special teddy bear.
The crying child, a fairy castle
Complete with magic looking glass.
The angry ones need a workshop
Stocked full of tools of destruction.
Yes! They all need special things
To heal ver "special" wounds..............
written 4-15-90
Friday, February 13, 2009
Defective Child
Defective Child shackled to the dungeon wall
Convinced she belonged in this dark ugly place
Had she dared to look at the "proof" of her fall
The ugliness of her soul reflected in the face.
No life, no love, no hope......this child remained hidden.
Believed alone, noticed but unnoticed by those others inside
Rejected and alone, unworthy and unforgiven,
Broken and unfixable, she could only be despised.
Yet her feelings, her fears permeated the system.
All protecting, all believing....... all everything related to her.
Formed early for the sole purpose of internal mayhem
Guaranteed silence, stifled reason, broken soul forever.
That dark ugliness at the core, believed to be always,
Kept everything under the thumb of oppression.
There was no hope as long as her secret was hidden
Yet, the belief was about fault, hers the lesson.
When the system began to challenge the beliefs
Maybe, just maybe, the child was not defective after all.
That particular child still saw no light, she heard no relief
Too broken and torn to see anything but her fall.
As each layer was peeled, her presence remained hidden
The only clue, pain so intense it couldn't be tolerated.
The secret, Never! Death was better than being unforgiven.
The answer wouldn't come easy, healing was over rated.
The Defective Child couldn't feel damaged or wounded
She knew better than anyone why she was so scorned.
If she remained invisible, living death, or life hounded
By the image of the devil......he understood those thorns.
Risking the light of day...... nothing but a booby trap
To be detonated in alone time where pain would break forth
Stored up for decades, Uncontrolled filthy heinous crap
Suffocated this Defective Child with what she stood for.
Pain so intense the entire system couldn't withstand it.
Walls tumbling out of control, safeguards totally destroyed
Still, in all the chaos, no one knew this one Defective Child existed.
The secret so carefully hidden, the child the devil employed.
Was that why she was defective instead of wounded?
Was she of the devil....... or did the devil do it............Was this the key?
No one knew...........NO ONE KNEW.....even though the pain resounded?
Not one single part had even a hint of this child or her story.
The only clue that deep deep emptiness, that black hole
That wouldn't be filled, and an echoing silence that deafened
Death resonated more loudly than any secret could hold
This Defective Child trapped in an isolation and deception.
She knew, she knew it all........but she wouldn't tell, never tell
Too ashamed, too horrified, too defective to a fault and more
This child swallowed up in her pain couldn't, wouldn't speak to tell
Lost in the blackness of depression taking all in the system. For......
That was the plan! Yes! That was the plan after all!
Pain so intense, better death that feeling anymore pain
And Defective Child so laden with pain because of her fall
No one, nothing, not even God could make her whole again!
Yes, that was the plan! That was the purpose of her creation!
Relying on her innocence, her genuine heart. The trick
Had been easily played all those years before. Her isolation
Guaranteed the belief that even God would see her as sick.
This Defective Child was caught not knowing she was wounded
Not believing there was any hope. Did it matter what her fall was?
Only to her. It was the enormity of her feelings that sounded
Throughout the system taking us down with a vengeful rush!
One shred of sanity managed to hold off the out of control spin
Putting a plan in place to open the ulcerating sore, confront this evil.
Facing our darkest fears easier than letting the ugliness win
Not knowing what to expect but sure, so sure it must be the devil.....
No matter what the secret! Despite the seemingly insurmountable pain
The belief of one, just one, in the process and that Defective Child saved
The day, the rest of the system. Cornered her in a way alone, dark again,
Yet protected. Feeling unsafe but safe......Blocking the devil's road paved.
Defective Child so set up didn't know she wasn't living her legacy
But still didn't speak. Exposed only mere thought. The artist easily shared
Gave away the secret. Exposed the trick. Disarmed the suicidal tendency.
This Defective Child wasn't really defective......Wounded beyond compare.
****************
As I prepared the post about this Defective Child, I was again reminded of the importance of role of this part in my entrapment and in my healing. I guess it was in thinking about that the urge to write this poem emerged. So while the things described here happened many many years ago, the telling in poetic form was begun a couple days ago and finished today. I'm sure this is not the last "new" material I will write about this child.
Convinced she belonged in this dark ugly place
Had she dared to look at the "proof" of her fall
The ugliness of her soul reflected in the face.
No life, no love, no hope......this child remained hidden.
Believed alone, noticed but unnoticed by those others inside
Rejected and alone, unworthy and unforgiven,
Broken and unfixable, she could only be despised.
Yet her feelings, her fears permeated the system.
All protecting, all believing....... all everything related to her.
Formed early for the sole purpose of internal mayhem
Guaranteed silence, stifled reason, broken soul forever.
That dark ugliness at the core, believed to be always,
Kept everything under the thumb of oppression.
There was no hope as long as her secret was hidden
Yet, the belief was about fault, hers the lesson.
When the system began to challenge the beliefs
Maybe, just maybe, the child was not defective after all.
That particular child still saw no light, she heard no relief
Too broken and torn to see anything but her fall.
As each layer was peeled, her presence remained hidden
The only clue, pain so intense it couldn't be tolerated.
The secret, Never! Death was better than being unforgiven.
The answer wouldn't come easy, healing was over rated.
The Defective Child couldn't feel damaged or wounded
She knew better than anyone why she was so scorned.
If she remained invisible, living death, or life hounded
By the image of the devil......he understood those thorns.
Risking the light of day...... nothing but a booby trap
To be detonated in alone time where pain would break forth
Stored up for decades, Uncontrolled filthy heinous crap
Suffocated this Defective Child with what she stood for.
Pain so intense the entire system couldn't withstand it.
Walls tumbling out of control, safeguards totally destroyed
Still, in all the chaos, no one knew this one Defective Child existed.
The secret so carefully hidden, the child the devil employed.
Was that why she was defective instead of wounded?
Was she of the devil....... or did the devil do it............Was this the key?
No one knew...........NO ONE KNEW.....even though the pain resounded?
Not one single part had even a hint of this child or her story.
The only clue that deep deep emptiness, that black hole
That wouldn't be filled, and an echoing silence that deafened
Death resonated more loudly than any secret could hold
This Defective Child trapped in an isolation and deception.
She knew, she knew it all........but she wouldn't tell, never tell
Too ashamed, too horrified, too defective to a fault and more
This child swallowed up in her pain couldn't, wouldn't speak to tell
Lost in the blackness of depression taking all in the system. For......
That was the plan! Yes! That was the plan after all!
Pain so intense, better death that feeling anymore pain
And Defective Child so laden with pain because of her fall
No one, nothing, not even God could make her whole again!
Yes, that was the plan! That was the purpose of her creation!
Relying on her innocence, her genuine heart. The trick
Had been easily played all those years before. Her isolation
Guaranteed the belief that even God would see her as sick.
This Defective Child was caught not knowing she was wounded
Not believing there was any hope. Did it matter what her fall was?
Only to her. It was the enormity of her feelings that sounded
Throughout the system taking us down with a vengeful rush!
One shred of sanity managed to hold off the out of control spin
Putting a plan in place to open the ulcerating sore, confront this evil.
Facing our darkest fears easier than letting the ugliness win
Not knowing what to expect but sure, so sure it must be the devil.....
No matter what the secret! Despite the seemingly insurmountable pain
The belief of one, just one, in the process and that Defective Child saved
The day, the rest of the system. Cornered her in a way alone, dark again,
Yet protected. Feeling unsafe but safe......Blocking the devil's road paved.
Defective Child so set up didn't know she wasn't living her legacy
But still didn't speak. Exposed only mere thought. The artist easily shared
Gave away the secret. Exposed the trick. Disarmed the suicidal tendency.
This Defective Child wasn't really defective......Wounded beyond compare.
****************
As I prepared the post about this Defective Child, I was again reminded of the importance of role of this part in my entrapment and in my healing. I guess it was in thinking about that the urge to write this poem emerged. So while the things described here happened many many years ago, the telling in poetic form was begun a couple days ago and finished today. I'm sure this is not the last "new" material I will write about this child.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Old Poetry..........
Who am I?
I am a child ~
A puzzle of a child ~
In an adult's body.
I am four years old
maybe more - - maybe less
But mostly around four ~
You expect me to be forty-three.
I am afraid
of the dark, of people
Of being discovered
You expect me to be "real."
I am real
I am a child
A puzzle of a child of four
In an adult body of forty-three.
I am not what you meant
When you said "real."
You meant real -- big,
Grown, well mannered, adult.
I am real
Real hurt
Real abandoned
Real rejected!
I am definitely "real"
A child of four
In a body of forty-three
Real and alone..........
Note: This poem was written March 21, 1990. As I begin sorting through all this stuff from my therapy process, I will be posting some of what I find. I don't know if there is a rhyme or reason to what I'm chosing to post. It just seemed to strike me that I wanted to post this........so here it is. Maybe after my recent post on "REAL" this just seemed to fit as another dimension in what is real for someone like me with Multiple Personality Disorder (Dissociative Identity Disorder).
I am a child ~
A puzzle of a child ~
In an adult's body.
I am four years old
maybe more - - maybe less
But mostly around four ~
You expect me to be forty-three.
I am afraid
of the dark, of people
Of being discovered
You expect me to be "real."
I am real
I am a child
A puzzle of a child of four
In an adult body of forty-three.
I am not what you meant
When you said "real."
You meant real -- big,
Grown, well mannered, adult.
I am real
Real hurt
Real abandoned
Real rejected!
I am definitely "real"
A child of four
In a body of forty-three
Real and alone..........
Note: This poem was written March 21, 1990. As I begin sorting through all this stuff from my therapy process, I will be posting some of what I find. I don't know if there is a rhyme or reason to what I'm chosing to post. It just seemed to strike me that I wanted to post this........so here it is. Maybe after my recent post on "REAL" this just seemed to fit as another dimension in what is real for someone like me with Multiple Personality Disorder (Dissociative Identity Disorder).
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Sacrificial Lamb ***** Triggers
Black robed figures dictated fear
On those dark and heady nights.
Even before they slithered out of the shadows
The doom was already evident - -
Suffocating...........paralyzing!
The altar grew in the moonlight,
A symbol of heinous acts
Festering in the minds of those believers,
Their focus always the perfect sacrifice.
A small child - - trembling, naked –
Lost in the horrendous pain of her reality.
Supposedly hypnotic chants don’t ease the terror.
She is trapped - - the unfortunate victim
Of their sadistic appetites.
They prey on her fear – revel in it!
Nothing is sacred to these worshippers
Of defilement, destruction and sacrilege.
Her value lies in the depths of her humiliation!
So they descend upon this lamb of God's
With all the hate their master has for hers!
Driven to destroy her innocence,
Her self, her humanity, her mind!
Obsessed with humiliating her to the soul
In an attempt to appease their fallen prince.
Consumed, like the fires of Hell, by the quest
For the ultimate evil – They take this child!
They chained her to the sacrificial altar
And plunged her to the depths of despair.
They assaulted her being with their evil
And left her not a shred of hope.
They gave her to Satan – THIS CHILD!
And then gloried in her torment and pain.
The loss of her blood and her virginity
Gave them the very power they sought.
And so the sacrifice is done - -
The child lays broken and torn.
Lost in the abyss that they have chosen
She feels no light, no love, no joy!
She is consumed by self-loathing and hate.
They have accomplished what they wanted - -
The child within is dead –
A broken shell walks in her place.
How many children will they sacrifice
How many times must the story be told
Before the world will see what they do,
These black robed thieves of innocence?
As long as society denies their existence,
We give them free reign - - We give them our children.
Turning our heads to avoid our own discomfort
We leave helpless victims to deal with out shame!
written by MiKael Jane Smith
© June 21, 1988
On those dark and heady nights.
Even before they slithered out of the shadows
The doom was already evident - -
Suffocating...........paralyzing!
The altar grew in the moonlight,
A symbol of heinous acts
Festering in the minds of those believers,
Their focus always the perfect sacrifice.
A small child - - trembling, naked –
Lost in the horrendous pain of her reality.
Supposedly hypnotic chants don’t ease the terror.
She is trapped - - the unfortunate victim
Of their sadistic appetites.
They prey on her fear – revel in it!
Nothing is sacred to these worshippers
Of defilement, destruction and sacrilege.
Her value lies in the depths of her humiliation!
So they descend upon this lamb of God's
With all the hate their master has for hers!
Driven to destroy her innocence,
Her self, her humanity, her mind!
Obsessed with humiliating her to the soul
In an attempt to appease their fallen prince.
Consumed, like the fires of Hell, by the quest
For the ultimate evil – They take this child!
They chained her to the sacrificial altar
And plunged her to the depths of despair.
They assaulted her being with their evil
And left her not a shred of hope.
They gave her to Satan – THIS CHILD!
And then gloried in her torment and pain.
The loss of her blood and her virginity
Gave them the very power they sought.
And so the sacrifice is done - -
The child lays broken and torn.
Lost in the abyss that they have chosen
She feels no light, no love, no joy!
She is consumed by self-loathing and hate.
They have accomplished what they wanted - -
The child within is dead –
A broken shell walks in her place.
How many children will they sacrifice
How many times must the story be told
Before the world will see what they do,
These black robed thieves of innocence?
As long as society denies their existence,
We give them free reign - - We give them our children.
Turning our heads to avoid our own discomfort
We leave helpless victims to deal with out shame!
written by MiKael Jane Smith
© June 21, 1988
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